Feeling Your Heartbeat
by KawaiiDino
Summary: John gets woken up to a surprising sight, and Sherlock somehow makes it better. John/OC


AN: Yet again, I own nothing. This is just a bit of John/OC fluff for a friend that's feeling poorly at the moment. Just a bit of fun Enjoy.

John Watson's eyes popped open against their will, at the sound of a high-pitched scream straight from a slasher film rushing into his bedroom. He was up and out of bed, barely untangling himself from the only cover he had before storming out of his room, down the stairs, and straight into a shivering, completely drenched (not to mention naked by the look of his robe that hung suggestively low around her breasts) woman.

"John, can you not spare some thought for me when you bring your woman home?" Sherlock Holmes was equally drenched and equally naked, bar the towel he held without much intent, as he strode from the bathroom. He barely spared either of the bewildered pair a glance before politely making his way down to Mrs. Hudson's. A moment passed before they heard the shower going downstairs.

The woman huddled against John refused to look anywhere but the floor. He only sighed before pulling the robe to its proper position atop her shoulders, deciding it was probably not the best idea to think he was capable of introducing subtlety to 221B at this early an hour.

"I'm sorry." He scratched at a sudden itch on the back of his neck. The woman still would not look at him. Instead she took a deep breath, a step closer to him, and barely a second to bury her face in his chest.

"No, no. I'm sorry your flatmate, that you drunkenly _had warned_ me about, managed to get a better look at me than you did." She mumbled sulkily against his bare skin.

John merely chuckled as he steered them both towards his bedroom, "It's alright. I'm sure you can make up for it somehow." He, of course in true John Hamish Watson fashion, realised a beat too late what he had suggested to someone that had just been traumatised by a consulting detective with ninja-like abilities; not to mention she was someone with a name that was somehow eluding him at the present.

Ice cold fear trickled down his spine as he realised the inevitable was staring him down; she was going to find a way to sneakily check if he knew her name before flouncing out of the flat, hopefully without slapping him.

"Uhm, do you maybe have a, a shirt I could borrow until I have the courage to go downstairs again..?" of course this was the point where John Watson was snapped form his panic, and looked down at the woman still under his arm as she gave an involuntary shiver (whether from shock or the chill, he couldn't know).

"Yeah, uhm, yeah I…" he trailed off before reaching for the first neatly folded t-shirt in his cupboard. She smiled gratefully before awkwardly struggling into it without showing too much skin. Somehow, regardless of the previous night's activities, John hadn't the nerve to so much as steal a glance or two. Not that he didn't catch a wayward curve here and there. A small clearing of the throat caught his attention, dragging his mind away from the dancing snowflakes just outside his window.

As far as one-night stands and random hook-ups went, he may have lucked out with his latest. It wasn't that she was that different from the others; just that he saw her differently. If a man could look at a woman and feel something spectacular, then surely it was a sign, right?

"Shall we?" he gestured nervously to his bed. It was missing a blanket, but that was an easily solved problem; he was, after all, wearing it as an improvised toga.

She blushed ever so slightly before nodding and sitting on the side of the bed she had woken up on. Of course, now John was the naked one. She watched him expectantly. Okay, now John was the naked one wrapped in the covers, watching a mysterious woman try her best to not look cold.

"John!" Sherlock shouted form below, "John!"

That was all John needed before he hurried over to the bed, deciding it was much better for him to cope with being naked under the covers than giving Sherlock an opportunity to ruin a perfectly good Saturday morning that may or may not turn into an amazingly spectacular Saturday afternoon.

Huddled under his blankets, he pulled his own frozen toes closer to those of the woman's. She giggled at the contact. He chuckled back. It was silly, really, but maybe silly was something he needed after a hellish week filled with gruesomely slain bodies and twisted mind games.

Abigail Jones was having a hard time keeping her eyes off of the sandy-haired doctor on the other side of the boardroom. They were both at a party that had all intentions of being a small get-together for those that were new to the tiny private clinic in central London. But when had that ever been possible in the bustling English city?

"Hey, I'll be right back. Just, uhm, going to get another drink." She smiled at her colleagues before making her way to the open bar. If she was going to successfully counter the effects of her hormone-induced haze, she would need copious glasses filled with distraction. On the other hand, the glasses could contain liquid courage without her knowing quite which is which.

"Your house red, please?" the bartender gave her a curt nod. As her drink was poured into a delicate wine glass, she failed to notice the man that came to stand beside her. He paid her no attention, having glimpsed her several times over the course of the evening from in between conversations and drinks orders. Perhaps it was the fact that she didn't stand out from the crowd without him being this close that made him do what he did next.

He reached down to lightly brush her hand with his fingertips, as if by accident. The woman snapped her eyes to his and he knew he was hooked. She barely had time to grab her drink before his hand took a hold of hers and the rest of the evening melted away.

When they got out of the cab, probably not as drunk as either thought they were, it was only a matter of time before the running a hand further along an arm or a leg turned into said hand finally finding a resting place, closely followed by whispered words from hungry mouths. The gently closed front door seemed like the perfect spot to start their wonderful trek up to his bedroom. Abigail realised they had somehow skimmed over the generally acclaimed introductions in favour of a shared passion for books. Many of the books they discussed were strewn all over the silent 221B, not that either would take much notice. Especially not once Abigail had her fair doctor backed up against the dark blue door.

"Oh I didn't think this was out yet?" The woman in John's bed was leaning over him to examine the books on his bedside table. They weren't anything fancy, just a few of his favourites, but they seemed to entertain her nonetheless.

"Yeah, it isn't. It was a present from…a client." She threw a _look_ over her shoulder before reaching for the novel that had caught her attention. Cracking the spine she read the first page, seemingly unaware of her dear doctor running a hand slowly up the back of her thigh. She drew in a deep breath and shut her eyes as his hand reached just high enough for her to lose interest in the book.

His lips were just as enjoyable as last night, when she had him pinned against the front door, and then when he had her settled on the railing as they attempted to make a quick, silent beeline to his bedroom. As the memories and sensations flooded her, she was taken back to the point that she didn't even know his name.

She pulled away, "Sorry, but I don't think we were ever introduced." It took a while for John to gather his thoughts to form a coherent answer.

"John."

"Abigail."

"Of course I really didn't know about the rule about not touching the children's display so, of course!, when I went in the next day the head nurse had a few strict words to share with me and I had no choice but to agree to being the hospital mascot – a bloody giant frog, can you believe it! – for the next month!" John couldn't help but put down his drink for fear of spilling it. For the past hour they had been talking about this and that. Currently the woman was telling him about an unfortunate interaction at her first job, as a nurse-sort-of-but-not-quite-in-training. Imagining the delightful brunette across from him as frog was enough to nearly double him over. It was a good thing they were both not as sober as they probably should have been, otherwise an unsettling awkwardness would get a decent foothold in their rather budding relationship (though, the buddingness of their so-called relationship could very easily be blamed on the amount of alcohol they had both consumed over the course of the evening).

"Seriously?" he raised an eyebrow at her laughter before joining in himself, "Ouch! That must have been a painful month for you."

Quickly downing the last of her drink she flashed a wicked grin at him, "Of course it was, but it was part of the overall plan to make me into the perfect human being I am sure I am today."

"Hah!" he drained his pint.

"What? You don't believe me?" the grin was replaced by a mischievous twitch of her lips. John swallowed.

"Well, I really only have your word to go on, now don't I?" his voice suddenly lowered itself.

She inched closer, standing in between his legs as he sat on the barstool, "Surely my word should be enough?" she planted a small kiss on the tip of his nose, then dropped to the corner of his mouth. It was all either could do to keep their breathing even and from grabbing one another.

"Shhh." The woman in his arms giggled as he backed them into the bookcase in the living room. He was totally off course, not even caring once they passed the threshold.

"Don't tell me what to do in my own home."

"But your roommate!"

"Sod him!" and then they were both leaning onto the couch as if it was their intended resting place.

"No, no, your room." She urged, pushing him away just enough to create space to try and clear her head.

"But that's all the way up the stairs." He mumbled through nibbles to the side of her neck.

"Your bed. Now."

John had half a mind to just throw some pillows on the floor and have his wicked way with her there, but, regardless of her returning his feelings genuinely, it was for the best that Sherlock _not_ interrupt him tonight. _Not after the last time. _So he gave in and gathered her up in his arms, her hands clutching madly at the scarf around his neck in search of a tighter hold on him.

Scarf, jackets, shirt, dress, pants, shoes, garter and stockings, underwear, all met John's bedroom floor as the pair fell into a perfectly made bed. The evening had only begun.

Stubble. That was the first thing that Abigail was aware of as she joined the land of the living once more. The sun had crept in under the curtains, casting enough light for her to see the blonde hair that covered his face. Lazily she ran a hand over his jaw, watching as his forehead crumpled slightly at her touch. She couldn't help a quiet snicker.

He had her trapped under his arm and upper body, using her as his body pillow. She was content, and he looked like the feeling was mutual. But then nature came calling and she was left squirming uncomfortably under his weight. She could vaguely recall a bathroom downstairs, near the main living area. It was her only option in her time of need. So, having decided on her plan of action, she shimmied her way out from underneath the man on top of her, had a fleeting panic attack the though of having to wriggle back into her dress, before her eye caught sight of a robe hanging on the back of the closed door. _Perfect._

Five minutes later she had finally relieved herself and was staring at herself in the mirror. It could be worse, yet she had seen better days for sure. It was only as she leant down to rinse out her mouth that she became aware of another man in the room with her. Now it would have been perfectly all right if he wasn't tall, still as a statue, and clearly in the middle of getting into the shower. Unfortunately for her, he was all of these things. And then some.

With no care to who heard her, praying the man she had left behind in his cosy bed wouldn't think the worst of her, she screamed once, twice, three times, before feeling the icy coldness of the shower water hitting her head on. The man standing in the shower, holding onto the showerhead only watched her patiently. When she finally quietened he raised an eyebrow at her. She was tempted to scream again, her sleep-and-alcohol-addled mind was running paranoid circles around her, not allowing the connection of 'roommate' and 'man in front of you' to be made.

"Who, are, you?" he asked, taking in her half-dressed appearance. Somehow, and she really wasn't sure when or how, the too-large robe had become too loose and started to open itself. The man was getting quite a show for 7 AM.

Abigail just stared at him; a deer caught in the headlights, before bolting out the door and straight into one Doctor John Watson, wrapped up nicely in the blankets from his bed. The poor man seemed beside himself.

"John, can you not spare some thought for me when you bring your woman home?" The stranger walked out of the room, and all Abigail could think to do was hide her face in the closest thing possible.


End file.
